


Unplugged

by AngelinaVansen (catherineflowers)



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 01:45:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14801999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineflowers/pseuds/AngelinaVansen
Summary: A diplomatic function. An intoxicant in the air supply. Inhibitions thrown away. What are a Captain and Commander to do? Bad, bad things, apparently.





	Unplugged

**Author's Note:**

> Written in the early 2000s.

Kathryn is seated at the table, and she feels pretty in her dress uniform. Eyes made up dark, and mouth a rich red. Smiling. Chakotay has his hand on her. This place isn’t real. 

Seven is passed out, face-down on the table next to her. She is pretty, too. Crimson dress like a flame, small gold chain on her throat. A rich red stone. Earlier, she told Kathryn that she wanted to copulate with her.

No one had minded, so Kathryn had kissed her, squeezed her butt through that gossamer dress and accepted Seven’s own explorations. The Borg hand on her breast. The human one between her legs. Hard. Then Seven had thrown up on her pretty red dress, and passed out.

It is probably that stuff in the air, she thinks. She remembers being wary when told a small intoxicant was added to the air supply at gatherings like these. They don’t drink their alcohol here, they inhale it. And it’s damn strong stuff. Tomorrow, when she cares, she’ll know that this has been the diplomatic fuck-up of her career.

Across the table is Ambassador Eike. And Minister Orense. And Premier Kusche. And she kissed Seven of Nine in front of them. She kissed Seven of Nine.

She will mind that tomorrow, of course. Worry about it. What does it mean? And what does this mean now, Chakotay’s hand on her leg? What does it mean if he strokes her like this?

This isn’t Captain Kathryn Janeway. Maybe she is someone else. Confused. Who would do this? She is Lieutenant Thomas Paris, maybe. But she sees him, there, reclined among the silken couches, Ensign Bewley in his arms. She can’t be him, because he’s not her.

She is eating something. Dry and tasty. She closed her eyes and it was in her mouth. Against her chin. Breathing hot across her cheek. It’s Chakotay’s mouth, Chakotay’s tongue. Chakotay’s chin, grinding hard stubble rough against her.

Her arms are around his neck, hands in his hair. Her throat is quivering, whimpering. Her hips are grinding a big, slow circle against his palm. His hand is on her, through her trousers. Her brain is pounding fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Crude as that. Perhaps she isn’t Kathryn Janeway, after all.

Then she is gazing into his deep, black-coffee eyes. Breathing the heat of his breath. Panting it in streams back at him. She knows what he is thinking. Upstairs, they both have rooms, private rooms. 

She is playing. She doesn’t think he has the guts. High on happy-gas or not, she’s still his Captain. They’re still in uniform. A kiss is one thing. Hell, she kissed Seven of Nine tonight. But fucking ... oh, that’s quite another.

Because it wouldn’t be fucking for Chakotay. Already he is husking declarations against her neck. Muttering. His hands are reverent where they trail down, over the sides of her breasts. 

Then they are quiet. Impasse. Panting. His move. She won’t move. He takes hold of the front of her uniform in a pinch, between his thumb and index finger. Pulling her towards him, half frightened, half teasing. He wants to know how she’ll react. She’s curious herself. 

His thumbs are making her ache as they rub her nipples through the padding of her bra. Kissing again, furious and hard. Ah, so this is it. She is on his lap, straddled as he loosens her pants and slips his fingers in her panties. Touching her so she hisses and arches hard towards his hand. He has an obvious erection right beneath her. Thrusting it against her, over and over. The world is gone and she is throbbing.

On her back at first, looking at Chakotay giddily. His face is panting with his desperation. Her head is upside down over the back of the table. Minister Orense is watching lazily while he eats. Watching Chakotay as he fucks her in the midst of all the cups and plates. Oh fuck, she’s gone. So gone she’s fucking her First Officer on the table.

On her stomach. Chakotay turns her over, both hands on her breasts, stroking down, hard, over her ribs and through the supple curves of her waist. Under the dress uniform. His hands are exciting. Strong, demanding. They are trying to rake emotions right out of her skin.

He is trying to make her feel. To transmit his emotion, his passion for her, right through her skin. The pressure of his big palms on her back. The pressure of his fingers, the pleasure.

Her pants are down. Emotions. Fear, exposure, the thrill of these. Chakotay’s fingers, hard and dry, are touching her. Pushing inside her. She hears her voice crying out, and watches her fingers twisting the tablecloth. He is going to make her come. Right here, in front of her senior staff, in front of the dignitaries she has to negotiate with, she is going to have an orgasm. Damn, he’s good.

He is on her back, thrusting against her buttocks. His stubble on her shoulder, the silk of his lips on her neck. Tonguing and nibbling. He is gentle, moaning, but the sharpness of his hips gives him away. She doesn’t want to make love to her First Officer.

His eyes are full of a sickening kind of hope. Fulfilment. He pants against her lips, tasting her lipstick with little short flicks of his tongue.

“I do love you, Kathryn,” he breathes. “I do love you so very much.”

Such odd phrasing. So romantic. Archaic. This is Chakotay’s fantasy. He is clearly dreaming too.

“This isn’t love,” she tells him. “Love never turns me on like this.”

He stiffens against her. She sees his face harden, but his hips don’t stop rocking against her buttocks. If anything, they get faster, harder.

He rolls her over again, roughly. Smack on her back. She sees the fire in his eyes. The Maquis. This is the man she was sent to capture, not the complacent, sometimes self-righteous officer she sits next to on the bridge every day. Oh yes. Oh good. This is Chakotay. 

He bites her lips roughly as she pulls at the fastenings on her own jacket. He gropes her butt and bites into her nipple so hard she has to swallow back a scream. When he moves his mouth, there is a crescent of blood welling around her aureole. He is still moaning words, grunting them against her body. One of them is “Starfleet Bitch”. 

Oh, this is exactly how she wanted him.

Paris is smiling at her. She sees him upside down from the edge of the table. Her back arches, her mouth drops open as she feels Chakotay shoving down his pants and dipping his cockhead in her wetness. His big hard hands circle her ankles, holding them apart. 

Paris’ lazy smile spreads as Chakotay slides into her, making her groan long and loud. Blood rushes to her head. Breath is squeezed from her by the pressure of the pleasure, building, building. Everyone can see her. Everyone. Tomorrow, everyone will know what she looks like naked. How she looks when she is fucked.

It must be pretty hot. Kim is masturbating, watching them. Torres is crossing and uncrossing her legs, transfixed. Orense and Eike, both absorbed now with their nubile little mistresses are keeping one eye firmly on the two of them.

They are wild. Kathryn’s hair is in the gateau. They are sweating. With every thrust, the table moves. Chakotay’s strong. The pressure of his hips, rocking over hers, his hands holding her wrists against the tabletop, is overwhelming. She is close, so close she doesn’t know if she can stand it. She thinks she is going to black out, burst, cry, scream, pee, grind her teeth into powder, but all she does is shake, cry out a little and come very, very hard.

When she regains her senses, the tablecloth is scrunched up, clawed into her hands, and all the plates are falling on the floor. Chakotay is grinning. Why not? He just made his Captain come.

He leans forward and sinks his teeth into her neck. Leaving a mark for tomorrow, she thinks. Not that her nipple won’t still be bleeding, chafing against her bra all day. But this one will be visible on the bridge. Lest we forget, he’s saying. Lest anyone forgets that Kathryn is Chakotay’s. She thinks she’s going to come again at the thought.

But he’s going for it now. This rhythm, hard and jerky, is for him. It feels like an abuse. His heavy bones are grinding against hers, dominating her, using her utterly. If he’d captured her, he might have done this, if he was the Maquis again, and he had raped her ...

She comes again. Sobbing this time, wildly. Oh God this is so good. So liberating. He grabs her hair and pulls it back, yanking her eyes into his sightline. She feels the hair tearing from her scalp. She feels the bruising on her pubic bone. She feels the burning of the acid in her thigh muscles. The rasp of dry air in her ripped and crying throat. Everything pumps, and she pulls him off with her.

He growls like an animal, pinning her and ripping her legs so wide she feels the ligaments tearing. She arches with him, stiff, and licks his sweat. Nuzzles him. He floods her, and bites her lips and chin. They gently kiss, and touch, and gaze, then part, and stop. 

She can’t walk. He has really hurt her. Gathering her clothes together over her bruised body, she is hit by a sudden sheet of agony as she tries to stand. All across her thighs and groin. Her knees are weak and painful, too. Chakotay catches her, supports her. Helps her to her chair. She’ll need the Doctor, tomorrow, when she’s back to being Captain.

She looks over to Chakotay, wanting to make sure that he’s okay. He’s passed out dead asleep now in his chair, head back and mouth open. She falls to the floor and drags herself across it to snuggle up with dear sweet Tom, who she’s always wanted to be.


End file.
